Your guess is undoubtedly as good as mine.
* * * * *
POSTSCRIPT
Within six months on the Sofa, I had Hollywood legends Carrie Fisher and Jeff Goldblum mimicking my accent, clownishly pronouncing Doo-naaaaal like a character from The Quiet Man.
‘It’s kinda Donald without the ‘D’,’ I proffered, trying to assist.
‘Onald?’ said Jeff, slightly perplexed.
‘That’s a much better name,’ I said.
Onald the Anchorman certainly has a ring to it, but not one that my mother had intended, I suspect.
On one occasion, I was sent out by ITN to camp with peace protesters in Parliament Square. They taught me how to use a straw bail as a latrine under the shadow of Big Ben, in full view of a thousand CCTV cameras and a group of Police officers. Life as a journalist on the most desired piece of real estate in England is usually more glamorous, but I felt strangely at ease with this raggle-taggle band of eco-warriors, homeless and anti-war protestors, eating out-of-date food scavenged from dumpsters and sleeping under tarpaulin.
Just a few weeks later, I was dispatched on an assignment to Egypt and found myself reporting from a huge rubbish tip that 65,000 people call home. In the distance, beyond the City of the Dead, I could see the Great Pyramid of Giza, and the majestic River Nile was just about visible from where I was standing. My attention was drawn, however, to a more startling sight – that of a herd of goats on the rooftop of a five-storey apartment block.
The occasional sharp shard of sunlight that caught my eye gave a hint to an inspiring and extraordinary way of life that has developed in of the most impoverished ghettos of Egypt. There were heaps of rubbish in every living room, in every corridor, on every staircase – indeed, everywhere I looked. This, however, is not a testimony to their poverty but to their ingenuity.
This area is home to 7,000 families, collectively known as the Zabaleen, Cairo’s garbage collectors. In the shadow of the Coptic Christian church cut into the sandy rock face, lies Moqattam, or ‘Garbage City’ as it is known. Here, an entire community is dedicated to recycling 4,500 tonnes of rubbish daily from Cairo. The refuse is delivered in trucks and distributed among the Zabaleen for processing. Some families specialise in recycling leather, others in electrics, others in cans or plastic bags. Everything from food to furniture is recycled. Fathers, mothers, children and grandparents all join in the industry of turning waste into a resource that will clothe and feed them. Huge mounds of papers, textiles, metals, even light bulbs are slowly and methodically sorted, compressed, washed, and then packed into huge grey hessian bags to be sold as raw material. Glass is collected and sold to factories; copper and other metals are melted and sold to dealers; plastics are reused in the manufacture of toys, and textiles are shredded and made into mattress filling. Certain shampoo bottles carry a premium because their manufacturers pay a little for every returned container to prevent them from being refilled and sold as counterfeits. Head & Shoulders and Pantene are among the first words students are taught in literacy classes. Donkeydrawn carts trundle along the potholed streets, over-laden with the valuable detritus. This hole in the ground is the recycling capital of the world.
Gazing on this in wonder I found my vast reservoir of warweary cynicism melting away as I learned how the poorest of the poor have found a way of eking out a living in the worst of circumstances – with the best and most remarkable of consequences. Never again shall I grumble about the selection of bins and recycling containers that clutter my doorstep.
The flashes of sunlight across the skyline that had caught my eye came from the solar panels that are part of an initiative to supply the district with hot water. I shared a cup of tea with a young man called Hanna, his wife and their new baby. The tea was all the sweeter for being the fruit of their ingenuity. In the shadow of an ancient wonder of the world, the Great Pyramid of Giza, I was witnessing a very modern miracle.
I could see how one community, one person can make a difference and how that difference can multiply and grow into a movement that changes lives and moves mountains. All it takes is one seed – and I never expected to find such inspiration in ‘Garbage City’. There was a time when I was beaten down by the worst that life had to offer – a time when I was so shot by fear and war wounds that I was nearly dead to the world around me. With the pungent aromas challenging my senses, and surrounded by the detritus of human existence, I was immensely grateful to inhale every breath of this uplifting experience. The Zabaleen have reminded me that hope springs eternal, even from the most unlikely of circumstances.
Life on the edge suddenly seemed more comfortable than life on the sofa.
Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me Page 25
